Clearly there’s something wrong with me.

It’s Saturday morning, and I’m afraid to leave my room because there’s a self-proclaimed god in my house. And I invited them here. And they’re currently a he. And I’m terrified that my parents will figure it out. And—

 No, that’s enough. I drag myself out of the spiral. It’s one of the few benefits that has come from being trans. I’m used to these spirals and have gotten decent at recognizing them and snapping out. Like when I start thinking about it being too late to transition. That maybe I could have told my parents when I was younger and they would have understood. Or I could have run away. I could have—

Right, spiral. No.

Alex. In the room next door. I should check on them. I should get dressed first though, And shower. Maybe not in that order.

📎 📎 📎

Okay, that’s better. The shower definitely helped. Getting dressed doesn’t, but it never does. Jeans. T-shirt. Ugh. For a little while I had a pair of girls’ jeans. I never worked up the nerve to wear them out of my room though. Enough stalling. It’s time to face the music.

📎 📎 📎

When I open my door, I hear voices coming from the kitchen. My parents are talking. To Alex. I look back at my bed. Maybe I should just crawl back in. I’d like to be especially well rested for my execution.

But the voices aren’t raised. I even hear my mom laugh. That isn’t that unusual. Then I hear my dad laugh. What the hell? I hurry that way.

📎 📎 📎

I smell the food before I reach the kitchen. Bacon and eggs for sure. Pancakes? No, I think waffles. We only break out the maple syrup for waffles.

Sure enough, there’s a huge spread on the table in the breakfast nook. I missed the biscuits, and the fresh squeezed OJ. I was spot-on on everything else. My mom is prying another waffle out of the iron, right onto Alex’s plate. It looks like this won’t be their first.

“Good morning, dear,” Mom says.

I grunt out a morning response. She puts down the iron and hands me a glass of orange juice before I reach the table. My dad nods to me.

“Alex is such a sweetheart,” Mom continues, “and his appetite. You’d think he hadn’t eaten for days.”

Well, not much worth calling food, anyway.

“This is the best breakfast I’ve ever had, Mrs. May,” Alex says.

He doesn’t sound like he’s lying. I guess that makes sense. Has he ever had a breakfast that wasn’t from a vending machine?

“Call me Diana,” Mom responds.

Alex nods and digs into his waffle. I want a waffle. And one appears on my plate, as if by magic. Or by Mom. I’m glad we’ve got the two waffle irons. 

My dad studies his phone while my mom watches the irons. After my waffle, I eat some eggs, some bacon, and a couple of biscuits. I am a growing boy, after all. Damn it. But it is a really good breakfast.

“Alex tells us he’s not sure when his parents are going to make it back to town,” Dad says. He doesn’t approve. 

I don’t know what to say to that. I look at Alex but they’re contentedly chewing a bite of waffle. I have to say something.

“Yeah.”

Hmm. That doesn’t seem to have satisfied him. He’s still not looking back at his phone.

“I don’t think he’ll need to stay here for more than a week,” I say.

My dad grunts and his gaze returns to his phone.

There aren’t any more crises during breakfast. My Mom peppers Alex with questions, but they're all ones he can answer noncommittally, deflect, or in some cases even tell the truth. I jump in once or twice to help on the deflection front. Once it’s all over, I volunteer to clean up. After a hint or two, Alex volunteers to help.

📎 📎 📎

“You need to take me to Big Box,” Alex says.

We’re sitting in my car because I couldn’t stand the stress of being there in the house with her and my parents for another minute. And yeah, they look like a her again. That’s not stressing me out at all. They could have at least waited until we left the driveway.

“I don’t need to take you anywhere.”

“Sorry. I need you to take me to Big Box.” They’re not sorry.

“Why,” I ask, but I’m already driving. I need to get away from the house.

“If I’m only going to be staying with you for a week, I need to figure out what comes next,” they answer. There’s no accusation in their voice. They don’t sound upset about the time limit,

“And why Big Box?”

“I think better in a temple.”

We can do better than Big Box, then.

📎 📎 📎

Downtown again. Where it all began a week ago. Just a week ago? Wow.

“Right up—” Alex starts to say, but I saw the glimpse of white.

“I know,” I interrupt.

I follow the goddess of the parking places to the best spot I’m likely to find downtown right now, I mutter thanks under my breath.

📎 📎 📎

Walking into this store the first time was almost a religious experience. Now it’s something else. Walking in with them at my side, knowing who they are, what they are, is overwhelming. I can feel them whenever they’re close, but this is like standing next to a furnace. Then they roll their shoulders, take a deep breath, and something changes. They reel it in, somehow. Whatever she did, it’s a relief.

We nod to the guy behind the counter. Same guy as last time. He nods back. Then we walk the store. Her eyes close the minute we’re past the register, and don’t open again. I feel like I could practically do the same.

A quick circuit of the store and they lead me back to the front. They open their eyes.

“You need an intern,” they say “more specifically, you need me.”

“I don’t need an intern.”

“Unpaid,“ they say.

He considers it. “I still don’t need you,” he replies.

“You’ve got multiple boxes of staples misshelved. You have your fountain pens next to the twenty pack of bics . . .” They go on the warpath. To listen to them you’d think this was the least well organized store ever, not the bastion of order that it is. This seems like a really bad tack to take with a guy who clearly prides himself on this stuff. He looks devastated.

“Free?” he asks.

“I’ll come in after school and whip this place into shape.”

Wait, what? He’s buying this?

“And I’ll need a key,” Alex finishes, “So I can lock up when I’m done.”

📎 📎 📎

I can’t believe that worked. When I tell Alex that, she doesn’t say anything. Not in words. The eye roll, though, speaks volumes. 

I’m getting hungry, and that’s a dilemma. I’d rather not go home for lunch, but I really can’t afford to keep paying for two lunches. Which makes me worry about how she’s going to eat once she’s working at the store. And where will she sleep? I ask her.

“There’s a couch in the back room,” she says, “as for food, there’s enough snack stuff there to keep me going.”

“That doesn’t sound very healthy.”

She shrugs, “I can take it for a year.”

So she plans to live on Slim Jims, generic pretzels, and gummi bears for the next year. She’s a stronger person than me. I guess I can spring for one more lunch. And I’ll have to have her over for dinner. A lot.

📎 📎 📎

I still have so many questions that I can’t decide which ones to ask. What is it like where she comes from? How often do gods take mortal form? Other than changing gender, and picking locks with paperclips, what can she do that a normal person can’t? I finally settle on one.

“Why can’t you get rid of the penny?”

“For one thing,” she says, “it’s a token of the bet. But more importantly, as long as I have it on me, my sibling can monitor me whenever they want. That way they can be sure I’m not cheating. As if I’d cheat.”

She would totally cheat. I ask her the obvious follow-up, and she either forgets her rule or decides to make an exception.

“I can’t lose the penny,” she says, “and no one can take it from me against my will.”

“How does that work?”

“How does the sun shine? Why is the sky blue? How far is up?”

Got it. She’s done giving answers for now.

📎 📎 📎

On Sunday, they, disappear right after breakfast, and don’t come back to the house until dinner time. I wonder what they stole for lunch, until I see how much they eat at dinner. I try to ask more questions as they help me clean up after dinner, but they manage to keep me off balance asking me questions about Gina.

I don’t know most of the answers. What kind of food does she like? I don’t know. What’s her favorite band? I don’t know. Taste in music? No idea. 

“You’re not making this easy on me,” they say, as we finish up. “What is it exactly that you like about this girl, if you don’t know anything about her?”

“She’s smart. She’s hot. She has great taste in clothes,” I say, “plus she’s on the drill team, and does gymnastics. Her makeup game is unmatched, and she’s super confident.”

“Are you sure you want to date her?” Alex asks, “It’s sounding like maybe you want to be her.”

“We’re done here,” I say, and go straight to my room. 

📎 📎 📎

I fall apart in the shower. They had no right to say that. I shut down. They’re not wrong. I mean, they’re half wrong. I do want to date her. But if I got to pick, I’d rather be her.  But I’m pissed at them for saying it. 

📎 📎 📎

I get up early in the morning and eat my breakfast. By the time Alex is up, I’m back in the shower, and I don’t come out until it’s time to leave. In the car I blast music loud enough to prevent any conversation.

📎 📎 📎

I don’t see Alex again until I get home. They’d left me a note saying they’d make their own way to the house, and for me not to wait. So I didn’t. During dinner, we each answer my parents’ questions about the school day. That’s about it for conversation.

📎 📎 📎

We’re doing clean up again. I think it’s weird that my parents don’t think twice about a guest doing chores, but in our house it’s been the kids that do clean up as long as I can remember. Since my sister left for college, it’s been just me. I’d be embarrassed about Alex helping if they were human. I’d probably still take the help though. 

“I get it,” Alex says, “you don’t want to talk about it.”

I wonder if that’s a god thing. If picking up conversations after days or hours, with no preamble, is just something they all do. Or if that’s just Alex.

“How could you tell?”

Ugh. Sarcasm. I’m trying to avoid that. I’m already living a lie, no need to add to it. “No, I don’t,” I say.

“Okay,” they say, “but have you ever talked to anyone about it?”

They just won’t take a hint. We’re not done with the kitchen, so I can’t just stalk off. So I answer. “No.”

“Why not?”

“My parents wouldn’t let me do anything about it—”

“How do you know? They love you. I can tell. If you need this—”

“Listen!” I don’t yell, but it’s close, “you don’t know my parents. My life. There’s no way they would let me, and besides, it’s too late for me anyway.”

I throw down the dish towel. They can finish themself. If they don’t I’ll just mop up in the morning.